


Second Harvest

by kenaz



Series: Chronicles of the Forest King [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:07:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4694951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kenaz/pseuds/kenaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil receives an unexpected-- and unwanted-- visitor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Harvest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zinneth (Zoya_Zalan)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya_Zalan/gifts).



> Zinneth's request: Haldir/Suprise me! Angst, the color orange, wind chimes, a feast, disappointing sex.
> 
> Most humble thanks to Marchwarden and Alpha Ori for their rapid-fire and astute beta work under my ridiculous time constraints and across multiple timezones. A few of these words you will recognize as your own, and I thank you for the gift of them. Thank you also to Ignoblebard, Ysilme, and my LJ friends who suffered through and/or weighed in on the Great Inconvenient Wife Debate. Thank you for the moral support!
> 
> And thank YOU for reading. It's nice to be back.

 

(Image: [Thranduil by Dominique Wesson](http://dominiquewesson.deviantart.com/art/Thranduil-428053378))

 

 

The slap of footfalls on stone came as an unwanted interruption, but the lack of affray suggested the approaching news was no matter of life or death.

Thranduil returned his attention to the documents on his desk with an ear cocked toward the door, biding his time until the young messenger begged entry and stumbled, breathless, into the room.

“The eastern border has been breached, my Lord.”

 _Damn, and damn again_. He wondered now at the lack of urgency-- such tidings should have brought a clamor, not one lone, quailing boy.

“By what? And how many?”

The youth shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Only one, Sire. Of Elvenkind. He had gone as far as the foothills near the southern edge of the mountains before revealing himself to the guards there.” He dropped to one knee, his head bent low. “They were caught unawares, Sire. He stood among them in full light before they could draw. He claims to have been in our lands for more than a fortnight; He will speak his purpose to none but you.”

Choler rose in him, molten iron in his veins. _Who dared?_ He ground his teeth against the names of those with the skill to evade his snares. Elrond he dismissed; the Lord of Imladris took far too much pride in courtly manners for this. Galadriel would have made a grand spectacle of her entrance. Celeborn might well have arrived alone, but he, at least, would have stopped and bid passage. The Grey Wizard could be counted on to arrive in a thunder of hoofbeats at the eleventh hour, bearing bleak premonitions of events beyond changing; it was most certainly not him. The grind of his teeth turned to a sudden hard clench. Oh, he knew who dared.

“Name him.”

The cowed youth shook his head without raising it. “The message was relayed to me without a name, Sire. The runner who reached me said he dared not tarry to learn more...told me I should come to you with all haste.”

He curled his fingers into fists and then stretched them wide. “Where is he?”

“With Legolas and the mountain guard, Sire. They are holding him until they receive your command.”

“Tell my son this:” He leaned in, gripping the fore-edge of the desk until the blood left his knuckles. “Bind him and bring him to me in the Great Hall at point of sword.” His voice remained velvet, with steel beneath. “Nothing moves in this land but I hear of it. No man, not even one of our kindred, has leave to cross my borders in secret. I trust not a caitiff who would hide in my forest like a fugitive.”

With a gesture of deference, the messenger retreated in even greater haste than he had entered.

Though the light filtering across his desk told of a day still young, Thranduil did not hesitate to draw a bottle of brandy from his cabinet and pour three fingers into an etched glass. He swirled it in amber circles between draws and called for his valet.

“Assist me in my chambers,” he directed. “I am not dressed for company.”

 

~ )0( ~

 

The doors of the Great Hall swung inward with a groan, revealing Legolas and a half dozen of the men assigned to patrol the eastern border and the mountains. Two of them grasped a tall figure by his arms and marched him between them. Thranduil watched from his great chair in a cloth-of-silver surcoat, his rowanberry crown lengthening into cruel spikes in the torchlight.

“Father,” Legolas bowed smartly, “we have an unexpected visitor.”

He did not take his eyes from his son. “So I have heard. Unexpected, and uninvited. I ordered him bound and yet he walks free.” He made no effort to blunt the edge in his voice. “Why?”

A flinch, almost imperceptible. “He is a kinsman and I deemed him no threat. He surrendered his weapons.” Stepping closer, he added more circumspectly, “He is from Lothlórien, sent at Celeborn’s behest; it did not seem meet to treat him as a criminal.”

Thranduil allowed the taut silence of his disapproval to speak for him.

“I will find the seneschal...” Legolas's jaw flexed before he yielded to the unvoiced censure, “to see rooms arranged for our...guest.”

“Fine. Do so. In the lower corridor.”

Cold and dank, the uncongenial rooms adjacent to the dungeon were sparsely appointed and reserved for recalcitrant merchants who required an evening away from Thranduil’s largess to reconsider unfavorable trade agreements. No Elf had yet passed a night in their hard, low beds.

"Most trespassers bide their time in my cells.” He enunciated each word and, when Legolas’s parting obeisance faltered, when those arrow-sharp eyes fell upon him with bemusement bordering on concern, he added, “He is lucky to have his life, to say nothing of a bed.”

“Take the others with you,” he gestured dismissively at Legolas' fellows as his son turned to depart. “They were of no use to me when I ordered this man brought to me at sword's point; they are of no use to me now.”

“And him?” Legolas nodded toward their captive.

“Leave him.”

And then they were alone, save for his men-at-arms at the door, men who grasped their value lay as much in their selective deafness as in their skill at arms.

Thranduil observed his-- _visitor--_ from the dais. Filthy clothes attested to weeks sleeping rough; a face smudged with dirt; grit making dark half-moons beneath his fingernails. Despite all this, he looked little the worse for wear. A finespun grey cloak lay draped over his pack looking no more mysterious than any mendicant’s garb. Even so, the thing offended him, this evidence of Lothlórien’s ability to hold terrors at bay through magic and guile while Eryn Galen paid the blood price for its safety. He adjudged the man’s face, an expression neither smug nor sorry superimposed across aquiline features.

“You are far from _your_ woods,” he bit out, sinking back slowly, almost languidly, against his throne, “and causing trouble in mine. What business have you here, Haldir of Lothlórien?” he asked at last, the final words hissing from his lips like a curse.

“I come seeking knowledge.” The man displayed his empty hands, as if Thranduil had forgotten he had been disarmed, before withdrawing a letter from the recesses of his garb. “I have heard a baleful force harries Greenwood the Great.”

Even at a distance, Thranduil recognized the wax seal on the parchment as his own, sent to Celeborn a moon’s turn earlier to apprise him of the malignance emanating from Amon Lanc, of the swift decay of the forest, of the growing appetites of the spiders. It had not been a plea for help; Eryn Galen took care of its own-- with cunning and strength of will alone. Yet he had held out hope of some explanation, some name to put to the burgeoning malice. Not this, an unwelcome face prying in his business and skulking about his lands during this hour of uncertainty.

“That letter was for the eyes of your lord alone, and yet you brandish it as currency. Trespassing, intercepting private messages...has subterfuge become your stock-in-trade? Did you tire of a common guard’s life? It is a shame to see one with your promise so degraded.”

The inscrutable facade remained. “My lord has sent me in his stead, to see your plight, and to bring him back my own observations. I have his faith, and I have his ear.”

“Which is to say,” Thranduil flicked out a contemptuous hand, “he could not be bothered to attend himself. Eryn Galen has never held interest to other realms lest it is expedient to _their own_ interests.”

A briefly-flaring nostril suggested Haldir’s displeasure. But he answered equably, “Lothlórien has troubles of its own, and yours may be akin to ours. At this moment my lord and lady are calling a council of the Wise to probe this threat. Thran-- _my Lord_ \--you are not friendless in this.” And then, after a moment’s hesitation, “I also wished to see how you fared.”

[Thranduil](http://fangwangllin.deviantart.com/art/Thranduil-513603474) by [FangWangLlin](http://fangwangllin.deviantart.com/)

 _Danger ahead_. Reflexively, he tightened his grip on his staff and on the arm of his chair. “Neither man nor beast has ever encroached on my realm with impunity.” He looked pointedly at Haldir’s cloak. “But neither have common poachers masked themselves in enchantment to abet their crimes.”

Haldir canted his head slightly, receiving the words as an acknowledgement rather than a rebuke. “You well know who trained me to walk in stealth. Cloak, or no cloak.”

Thranduil's eyes closed under the weight of memory. Yes, he knew. That man’s bones had become coral for the fishes long ago, the land he had stalked in silence sunk beneath a violent sea. The past was a dark road, and he felt all the wearier for walking it. “What do you want of me?”

“To see your plight,” Haldir answered. “To know your defenses and gain assurance that the borders of Eryn Galen can withstand the evil lurking so near. To glean what I can of its nature so I might take this knowledge to my lord and lady. I came covertly that I might see vulnerabilities needing remedy.” He met Thranduil’s critical gaze with one of his own. “The Elvenking of Eryn Galen has a reputation for great pride and greater secrecy; I did not imagine he would divulge his confidences lightly; I sought them another way.”

Thranduil exhaled. Oh, he was viciously aware of the spurious renown his forces had attained on the Dagorlad, had heard what was said of him and of his people in the realms beyond: that they were “more dangerous and less wise”-- a reputation which would be tarnished further by a less than gracious account of his ability to steward a land in peril. Throughout his ruminations, Haldir stood in mute attention, awaiting his judgment. A blow across the face, Thranduil considered, would have been as indecorous as it would have been satisfying. He despised the revelation of his land’s degradation and his inability to bring down the malevolence on his own. More than all of this, however, he despised that this man, out of all others, had come to sniff out his weaknesses and make them known.

Legolas’s return with the seneschal cut short further dour contemplation and forced him to deal with the situation at hand. After all, he had been the one to seek advice from Celeborn; he could not very well choose its form. Inhibiting Haldir would only thwart his own purposes in the end; he had no choice but to bear it.

“So be it.” He straightened his spine and struck a magnanimous pose. “You would see my land and my defenses? You wish to behold the dangers my people face daily? Fine. I give my son leave to reveal our secrets, to demonstrate our defenses, and to bring you as close as you desire to the corruption in our midst.” Haldir opened his mouth to speak, but Thranduil’s hand shot up and forestalled the attempt. "He bears no responsibility for your safety, _Galadhel_ ; your protection is at his discretion.” He looked at Legolas, who appeared taken aback by his father’s caprice. “Show him what he desires to see. Withhold nothing. If he so desperately wishes to be of use to our people, let him be of use.”

“I should need a month at least,” Legolas replied after some consideration, “and if our guest is to stay long enough to see the extent of our defenses, the Feast of the Second Harvest will be upon us. He should stay, then; know our bounty as well as our bane.”

Thranduil was struck with the urge to crack his head against the back of his chair until it bled. His son's good humor was his most gracious gift from his mother; at this moment, he cursed it. “Yes, fine.” His graciousness was sweet and poisonous as belladonna.“Should he wish it, he may attend.”

He dismissed his seneschal, and Haldir with him, down to the lightless rooms beneath the feasting halls. Legolas stayed behind, watching with an inquisitive expression and awaiting his chastisement.

“You are still wroth with me.”

“It is not for you to judge my wisdom,” Thranduil replied coolly. “Not in front of my men, and absolutely not in front of _that_ man. You may be grown in stature, but you are not grown beyond the reach of my discipline.”

Legolas inclined his head in a brief nod of accession. Yet when he looked up, his eyes gleamed with interest.

“I knew his name. Mother used to speak of him when I was small. She called him a particular friend to you in Doriath before she knew you, and in Lindon, after. That is why I did not bind him, though I have never heard _you_ say his name.”

Thranduil turned to look at some point in the distance, wishing his son would train his canny gaze elsewhere. “He presumes too much on ancient days if he thinks to enter Eryn Galen concealed like the enemy.”

“And yet you would have me show him our defenses. Withhold nothing, you said.”

Thranduil’s breath left him evenly. “He had skill in his youth, and if he has the faith of Celeborn, he has it still. Yes - show him.”

The words were intended as a dismissal, but Legolas remained rooted, his expression shrewd. Thranduil’s patience waned and a dull ache blossomed behind his eyes. “What, have I grown horns?”

 

His son’s eye’s narrowed keenly. “If you mistrusted him, you would have put him in a cell. If you misliked him, you most certainly wouldn’t have extended an invitation to Second Harvest.”

Thranduil pinched the bridge of his nose. “You extended the invitation, not I.”

“Which you might easily have rescinded. I’ve seen you do so more times than I can count, and savored the insult. You’ve never suffered fools.”

“Only the one I’ve sired. Is there a point to this examination of my character? This insolence is tiresome and unlike you.”

Legolas did not shrink from his father’s temper; of the many traits passed from father to son, stubbornness had been strongest of all. “What was he to you, this Haldir?”

 

“Enough.” Thranduil rose swiftly, the audience precipitately adjourned. “Show him what he wishes to see. Answer his questions. Keep him out of my way.”

Legolas bowed to him as he swept past. A sidelong glance revealed that the boy had at least the courtesy to school the curiosity in his expression. A small mercy.

“Have Arroch saddled. I wish to ride. Do not look for me before nightfall.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And since you are so determined to have this guest at our feast, tell the seneschal to seat him below the salt!”

He left the hall before he could hear his son’s reply.

  

~ )0( ~

 

 

Haldir and Legolas remained blessedly scarce in the following weeks. When their paths chanced to meet, Thranduil excused himself with alacrity bordering on discourtesy. Haldir treated him with stoical courtesy and attempted no familiarity.

Yet Thranduil could no more stem the passing of the days than he could dam the River Running. Soon the feast was at hand, with its consequent requirements to put on a display of generosity and to feign conviviality. The folk of Eryn Galen needed these celebrations to maintain their spirits and would need them even more as the darkness increased its hold. And Thranduil knew in his heart it _would_ increase its hold. Kingship necessitated the wearing of a face composed to inspire those around him, even as his own disquiet compounded daily.

Thranduil sent his valet away. In his rooms, alone, he dressed in russet silks and heavy brocades the colors of autumn leaves. His final feast in Lindon had also come at Second Harvest. The seasons there had been subtle in their changing; the air at this time of year would have held no bite until the sun had disappeared beneath the line of the horizon. In Eryn Galen, summer swelter gave way to first frost with merciless alacrity. He had loved those nights, the revels held by the Sindarin settlements on the quarters and cross-quarters of the year. The pageantry had thrilled him, and the exuberance they teased out of a people caught for years in grief at the loss of land and leaders had heartened him. But that final celebration had been an interminable affair, made even more so by news he had been desperate to share.

He fought the recollection as though for his life: the past was treacherous as any sword, and tonight he would not be the victor. Memories held him, subsumed him. Defeated, he let them come...

 

~ )0( ~

 

...The food and wine marched forth in an endless parade. Merry voices sang and gave thanks for the bountiful harvest, and offered hopes for a short and clement winter. Feverish with the developments of which he had earlier been apprised, Thranduil’s hunger was stunted, making him feel drunk even before he took his first sip of wine. A time of secrecy had come to its heady conclusion, and after endless orchestration and scouting, his father’s greatest plan had come to fruition: the East beckoned, with its untamed woods and rulerless tribes, tribes who would respect the wisdom and governance of the Sindar. The Noldor would hold no sway in this place, and the Grey-elves could rise to the greatness denied them in Lindon.

Oropher, lauded for his defense of Thingol against the Dwarves, and of Dior against the sons of Fëanor, had been put forth as the king of this new realm. Thranduil would be a prince. The idea of it made his head reel. Once, he had only hoped to rise to be another man’s captain, but soon he would have captains of his own. Advisors, counselors, a force of arms to command. But for all this, there was but one man he wanted at his side.

At the moment, this man was at an adjacent table, laughing into his wine glass. Thranduil could see him clearly if he leaned just a bit to the right. And each time he looked, Haldir stared back at him, brow raised in a taunt, a challenge. Torchlight played in his hair and the ruddy flicker of candle-flames made his skin glow. The weight of a foot pressing down hard against his own jolted his attention back to his plate; his father did not need to speak; his disapproval was as evident as his bootheel. When Thranduil dared look again, Haldir was smirking. His own lips involuntarily turned upward.

Hs father cleared his throat, stopping his smile short. A countenance hard as gemstones demanded full attention. “Let discretion be your watchword, Thranduil.” He leaned in, his voice pitched low and steady. “Celeborn’s lady sets her eye on a realm of her own and I would not have our plans usurped by that upstart Noldor woman.”

“What has this to do with me?”

A slight turn of the head, a sidelong glance sent to the table behind him. “Hathalador has long been Celeborn’s man. We know not yet where his loyalties lie.”

 _But I know where his son’s lie_ , _and that is all that matters to me._

“You are fond of his son, I know. But those in whom we place our deepest faith can betray us most sorely.” His tone was water eroding rock. “Discretion, Thranduil.”

“Aye. I will be discreet.” Yet even as the words passed his lips he began calculating how soon he could take Haldir aside and tell him all. The celebrations persisted, indifferent to his desires.

By the time the tables had finally been cleared and the musicians were preparing for dancing, Haldir had already vanished from the gathering. Thranduil made excuses and slipped outside after him, choosing the eastward path as the most promising, with its furtive trails and bowers. Distantly, he heard the persistent and feeble knell of wind chimes in the trees; so close to the water, they were never silent.

Harlindon, he supposed, was a comely enough land, though not like Doriath had been. Not like the East would be. He missed the wildness of Neldoreth, the frigid roar of Esgalduin.

Not a soul tarried on the trails, but some instinct toward caution stopped his tongue from calling out. An arm caught him around the waist and hauled him backward off the path into the shadow of the trees. Breath buffeted his neck, the curve of grinning lips waged a gentle assault against his skin, and the prick of teeth stung the lobe of his ear.

“I would have found you.” He relaxed into the clutch. “Eventually.”

“Do you think so?” A low chuckle. “I was Beleg’s better student.” Haldir pivoted into his view, cheeks wine-flushed and eyes bright with mischief. “You took forever to get away! Was your father holding forth on statecraft again?”

Something seized within him, a desperate anticipation that was a hunger all its own. It spooled out of him, curling his lips into a smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact. I have news, Haldir!”

“And I have _wine_ , Thranduil, and no stomach for politics.” He raised the pilfered bottle and extended a hand to Thranduil. “Let’s be off! We are still close to the hall.”

“But this news--”

“--Your news can wait! I cannot.”

Thranduil sighed. “Impatient bastard.”

“For you, always. And you’re a fine one to talk!” He swatted Thranduil’s thigh. “I offer wine and the incomparable gift of my company, and you want to _talk_! Whatever it is, set it aside.” He cocked his head and smiled appealingly. “For me?”

The brightness of those eyes, the clarity of that gaze-- wine or no wine-- held Thranduil like a shackle, bound him where he stood. One of Haldir’s braids had unraveled. He was always careless about these things, Thranduil thought, even on a feast night. But no matter: he was beautiful. Glorious. “I begin to understand how Elu Thingol lost himself in Melian’s stare.” he said, touching Haldir’s cheek and surprising himself with his candor. “I could stand a thousand years with you like this.” Usually they had couched their endearments in oblique jests, but tonight he reveled in his truth, possessed by his vision of their future together in the East. The seed of the great plan flourished inside him, promising a bounty he hadn’t the words to describe. He needed no words to envision what this new world could betoken, what glory and adventure lay ahead.

The flush in Haldir’s cheeks spread like a fire, not just from the wine this time. “If you think they did nothing but stand staring,” he teased, “your imagination is sorely lacking.” He stepped closer. “Mine isn’t.” He grabbed Thranduil’s belt and pulled him close. Heat echoed between them. “Kiss me or open the wine. Those are your immediate options. News and declarations of adoration can come later.”

“Damn the wine!” Thranduil growled. What else could he do but kiss him, and fiercely? He could have done _that_ for a thousand years, as well! “I love you,” he whispered, “and I want you.”

“And I, you.” Haldir’s tongue trailed an obscene promise on Thranduil’s throat. “We’ll go to mine. It’s closer.”

“But your parents--”

“My mother was eager to dance tonight. She’ll keep father occupied until the players’ fingers bleed!”

So they had dashed down the paths, laughing into their fists like the foolish boys they were. When the path split around an ancient maple, Haldir jogged one way and Thranduil the other, ducking a low-hanging branch an instant too late.

“Ah! Damn!” He released Haldir’s hand to rub his head.

Haldir’s apology came with equal parts mirth and concern. “No mark. The boughs wouldn’t dare. Your hair’s borne the brunt of it.” he said, smoothing it down. Something caught his eye and he stooped low. “Here,” he said, picking up two brilliant leaves shaken free from the branch, a riot of orange and gold. He wove the stems in Thranduil’s hair, one on each side of his face. His expression softened, deepened, as he stroked Thranduil’s cheek with his knuckles. “A crown suits you.

He once more felt the gripping in his chest, the overwhelming excitement to tell Haldir everything, to immediately begin their scheming. But Haldir had already resumed his flight; all Thranduil could do was follow.

Haldir’s bed was not large, but it served their needs. The sheets were soft and smelled of him. The candle cast recognizable shadows on the walls and across their bodies. Haldir’s fingers moved deftly on his laces while Thranduil stripped himself to the waist. His mouth, hot and sweet, held Thranduil in thrall until his legs buckled and he sank to the bed.

“There,” Haldir said, looking up at Thranduil from his position on his knees, a wild gleam in his eyes. “Now that your thoughts are where they should be, what is your pleasure tonight? Shall I-- or would you...”

Thranduil draped a leg over Haldir’s shoulder in reply, wrapped the other around his waist. Haldir grinned wolfishly and turned his head to lick the inside of his thigh. “Very well.”

He tried to give himself over to the sensations he knew would follow, but tonight, though familiar and beloved, the small room and narrow bed confined him. His mind conjured images of a fine chamber and a curtained bed twice the size of Haldir’s-- with Haldir in it.

It took him a moment to realize Haldir had stilled. “Why did you stop?”

“You’ve gone elsewhere.” He looked both annoyed and hurt.

Thranduil felt Haldir’s shaft flagging within his body, even as his own hardness dissipated. “I’m sorry. My mind _is_ elsewhere, but for good reason. I swear it.”

Haldir peeled himself away with an irritated grunt, leaving Thranduil wincing at the sudden absence. “Let’s have it, then.” He frowned when not granted an immediate answer. “Well? You’ve already wasted a lovely opportunity. Tell me why.”

“Do you ever consider leaving your family’s home?”

Haldir paused half-way down his body, his arms bent and resting across Thranduil’s thighs. “I thought it prudent to wait until I had a commission. Which I may have, under Celeborn in the Emyn Beraid come Spring.” He shot Thranduil a queer look. “Why are you thinking about that now?”

Pushing himself to sitting, Thranduil tried to decide where to begin. “My father and I, and some of the others… we are leaving Lindon. Soon.”

Haldir looked like he had been struck. “What? When will you return?

“We will not. And I want you to come with me.”

“You can’t be serious! What madness is this?”

“Do you claim ignorance of the rumors, Haldir? The whispers? It not madness. It is our destiny.” A conflagration of spirit roared up within him. “Do you wish to live forever under the thumb of the Noldor?”

Haldir curled onto the bed at Thranduil’s feet. “I do not believe we have been so very put-upon in Harlindon. Gil-galad leaves us to settle our own affairs.”

“Gil-galad leaves us until he has need of us, and then we will all be called up to do _his_ bidding and to fight _his_ wars! But Endor is vast; we have sought out a land of our own, beyond the Anduin. We would no longer be ruled by others, but would rule ourselves!”

“You know this place already?”

Thranduil nodded. “I have seen the maps. Scouts have ventured there and discussions were had with the Nandor tribes. They welcome our guidance if we respect their ways-- something the Noldor seem loath to do with us." He reached forward to shake Haldir by the shoulders, but he remained just out of reach. "Haldir, listen: my father will be king. He has support from both the Sindar and the Nandor with whom he has been treating. King, Haldir!”

“Can he do that?” A look of astonishment transformed Haldir’s face. “Just... name himself king?”

“The Noldor have done.”

“The Noldor were granted kingship by the Valar!”

A creeping doubt began to settle over Thranduil. He disliked the feeling of it, the touch of something unclean. “You defend those who geld us? They relinquished the right to rule over us when they slew our forebears and our King! Is it not our birthright to reign as Thingol did? Is it wrong to desire more than we have? More wealth, more power, more agency?”

Haldir’s gaze slid from Thranduil, to the narrow span of sheets, to the guttering candle on the night table. “So… Oropher will be king of the Nandor in Endor, and you will be their prince.” His voice held a wasp’s sting. “What do you imagine I would do there? What would I be to you?”

“Captain of the guard! My second! My strategist! Star’s sake, Haldir, call yourself Chief Poet of the Realm if it pleases you-- you could be whatever you wished! That’s the beauty of it!”

Haldir cocked his head, looking at him with some sort of disbelief. “You jest at my concern? Here, we are equals.”

Thranduil had not meant to jest at his concern; he did not even understand it. He opened his hands in appeal. “We will always be equals.”

“No.” Haldir shook his head. “In this new place, you would style yourself a prince.”

“This changes nothing.”

“This changes _everything_. No matter what my position, I will be in your service. The Nandor will see me as a lesser man.” When Thranduil, stunned at the simplicity of this observation, failed to answer, Haldir shook his head again, slowly, sadly. “Royalty does not have peers, Thranduil. You cannot be my prince _and_ my equal both.”

“I care nothing for what anyone else thinks!”

“But I do. And I would not have the luxury of your indifference.” Haldir pushed Thranduil’s legs aside and pulled the sheet across his loins as if suddenly ashamed of his nakedness. His eyes had taken on a febrile gleam, and he looked at Thranduil without blinking. “How kindly will your subjects respond once they discover their prince is being ridden by the captain of his guard? How long can you maintain your indifference when they mock you behind your back for fucking beneath your station? Or when they begin to mock you to your face? Or to mock _me_? How long will your interest hold when my affection becomes a liability to you?”

Thranduil said nothing. Every last spark of joy had left him. Every vision he had had of their singular glory had begun to crumble. Beside him, Haldir hunched, seeming to turn in on himself. Thranduil had prided himself on his ability to identify every turn of Haldir’s moods through his posture, his gait, the tone of his voice. But no longer; he could not even begin to fathom where Haldir’s thoughts had taken him.

“A kingdom requires a dynasty.” Haldir’s voice had become a toneless hum, rough at the edges. “Does it not?”

A wave of nausea rolled over Thranduil and broke. He had hoped to postpone this particular discussion until he understood more of the larger design. “My father has... made inquiries.”

“ _Inquiries_?” Haldir’s voice cracked. “You only _now_ tell me this?”

Haldir surveyed him as if he were a stranger, his countenance disfigured by defensiveness and distrust. Thranduil did not answer; there was nothing he could say. Only then did he understand his father’s request for discretion, and understand he had not thought this thing through. Enthralled by the incipient victory, he had imagined the ideal of it, but not the sacrifices it required. Of him, and of Haldir.

“Answer me, Thranduil. Why have you never spoken of this before?”

“Why have you never spoken of this commission from Celeborn before?” A lame deflection, and he knew it.

“Because it isn’t anywhere near to a sure thing! Stop evading my question!”

“My father demanded secrecy until he secured all his plans. I respected his demand until tonight.” He rolled to his knees, moved down the bed to clasp Haldir’s wrists, as much to hold him there as to feel his skin, as if all misgivings might be vanquished with a touch. “Come with me, Haldir. We will find our way through this. We will find a way.”

Haldir disengaged and turned aside. “Enough. Please-- I must think. I cannot simply--”

“--why not?” he had become desperate now.

“Why cannot you remain here? In Lindon, with me? Nothing could ever part us here.”

“And do forever in the name of other men what we ought to do for ourselves? We are not their servants, Haldir! We could achieve greatness, you and I together. Why should we pledge fealty to unworthy men? ”

“Do you find Celeborn so unworthy?”

Thranduil had not yet formed his answer before a woman’s light laughter pricked in his ears.

“We will not be alone much longer.”

Thranduil pulled himself out of bed and gathered his clothes with reluctance. “Think on it. Please, Haldir. I do not want to separate from you.”

“Then _stay_.”

“I cannot deny my father.” He shook his head. “I do not wish to. The world beyond promises great things for our people, and for us. Please. Think on it.” He crossed to the window and glanced down. He had made this drop more times than he could count. Even in the moonlight he could see the narrow path where their footfalls had for years inscribed the ground below. He had always imagined they would strike out together. In an eyeblink, what he had believed to be a matter of course was in jeopardy. He rushed back to the bed, grabbed Haldir’s chin and forced their eyes to meet. With each passing moment something irreplaceable was slipping through his fingers. “Do you love me?”

Haldir looked as though the question hurt him. “Always.” He extricated himself from Thranduil’s grasp and his gaze settled on the floor. “Always,” he repeated in a whisper. It sounded like “farewell.”

“Please. I do not wish to go this alone.”

“You will not be alone. I wager princes rarely are. Besides, you will be with your father.” He looked at Thranduil raw-eyed and miserable. “And your wife.”

With that, he turned away.

Thranduil dropped his surcoat and boots out the window and swung a leg over the sill. He searched his mind for some valiant, final sortie, but found nothing. Haldir’s back was still turned when he swung to the ground, gathered his things, and made for the woods.

Not until he sat alone in his rooms did he discover he still had those ridiculous leaves in his hair. He pulled them free and crumpled them in his fist. They were already dying; they would turn from orange to brown, and from brown to dust. “He will come,” he told himself. “His mind can still be turned.” But he knew even then that this was a lie.

Haldir had not come. And Thranduil had not seen him again.

 

 

 

...A knock at the door dispatched the wraiths of ancient days. The king reflected in his looking glass was not that heart-stricken youth; he had never been so young. Had he?

“What is it?”

“Shall I retrieve anything for you from you vaults, Sire?” His valet’s voice was, as ever, studiously devoid of pique. Thranduil hoped he recompensed him well enough for tolerating his mercurial moods.

“Yes,” he replied, lifting his chin. “Tonight I will wear the crown of leaves.”

 

 

~ )0( ~

 

 

Music and laughter resounded in the hall, and wine flowed in rivers, some of the best of Thranduil’s cellars. He observed the merriment from the high table, apart from the din and removed, body and mind, from the proceedings.

Seating Haldir so far down the table had been a petty insult he now regretted. It was unworthy of him. Not that Haldir evinced any discomfort. As he ate and drank and conversed with the lesser men on either side, Thranduil found he did not recognize the guarded smile, the calculated expressions revealing nothing of their bearer.

Haldir noticed him watching, subtly lifted his mazer, and even more subtly inclined his head. Something in the gesture made Thranduil ache.

When feasting ended and the dancing began, Thranduil noticed Haldir had reliably made himself scarce. He left the festivities in Legolas’s hands and decamped with little ceremony.

Haldir would have gone toward the great copse of oaks just inside the eastern eves, he reckoned, to make an offering to the ancient boughs, or to better glimpse the harvest moon hanging fat and low through the interstice of their canopies. At least, this is where the Haldir of old would have gone. The faint strain of windchimes made the hairs on his neck rise. Fanuilos had hung them because they had brought her joy in Lindon. Thranduil had never liked them, neither in Lindon nor here, but it had seemed callous to deny her such a small thing. Yet breezes rarely reached the deeps of the forest, and she had become convinced that they struck solely discordant tones in the Greenwood. They certainly did tonight.

He had not wanted to think on Fanuilos, though.

He stalked Haldir through copses of ash and elm, and beside the banks of the Enchanted River. As the oaks rose up in his sights, he beheld a kneeling figure clad in green and brown, dagger in hand. Vibrant red dappled the largest roots. He came close enough to touch, but he did not. He whispered Haldir’s name.

Caught unawares, Haldir rose and spun, The dagger flashing in the light of the moon, but Thranduil remained just beyond arm’s reach. Paling at the sight of him, Haldir stood down.

“You were not Cuthalion’s only student, you know.” He offered Haldir his handkerchief to stanch his palm.

“True.” Haldir took the cloth, color returning to his cheeks. “But I was his best.”

An accord, then. A quiet peace. Each man stood still, hesitant to move or speak and break it.

Thranduil indicated a lesser-worn path taking them away from the upper halls. “Walk with me.”

A cynical half-grin displaced the placidity of Haldir’s face. “As you command, Sire.”

He had not seen the bolt coming, the sudden revocation of Haldir’s diplomacy. It struck home and hard. “I ask as a friend.”

“I had not presumed a friendship between us.”

What wary beasts they had become, ancient, threatened, and circling. This dance sucked the marrow from his bones. “I suppose I have given you no reason to presume one.”

Haldir busied himself with the wound on his palm, binding it with Thranduil’s handkerchief, testing the knot, making a fist and releasing it. When naught else remained to do for it, he turned his attention for an attenuated moment toward Thranduil’s crown. “I crowned you with leaves once. Long ago. I believe I even said it suited you. How little I understood my own words.”

“You think I had forgotten.”

“Are you asking? Then, yes. Yes, I assumed you had forgotten.

The knife twisted, then drove home. “I had not.” This had been a mistake. “That must please you.”

“No more than it pleases you.”

How quickly their little peace had failed them.

“Have you seen what you came to see?” Thranduil asked, the laconic delivery a shield against whatever weapon Haldir chose to wield against him next.

“Legolas showed me all I asked, and I apprised him of what I noted when I entered,” came Haldir’s bloodless response. “Your defenses are strong, and yet if I could make my way in, you should have a concern that whatever dwells on Amon Lanc may find their way in also.”

“Your stunt made that abundantly clear.” He stood with arms akimbo. “When you report to your masters of Eryn Galen’s vulnerabilities, you may also remind them Eryn Galen has no Girdle of Melian to keep its marches inviolable, and it’s regent’s rings are but gold and stone.”

“I denigrate neither Eryn Galen nor its defenses.” Haldir’s expression hardened. “But speak ill of she whom I serve--”

“--You threaten me in my own land?”

“I am not your enemy, damn you! You would cast stones at those who might help you!” He stepped back, turning his face away once more. When he looked up again, a certain light had left his eyes. “I expected no warm welcome here, but I did not expect enmity. Especially in perilous times.” Thranduil watched the transformation of his face, the squaring of his shoulders as he mastered himself and said, phlegmatically, “I have imposed upon you long enough. I will take my leave at first light.”

When he turned on his heel and started back in the direction from which they both had come, Thranduil strained against the urge to chase him; he had already divested himself of enough of his pride.

“Haldir. Please.” The words were softly spoken and not quite a plea, but Haldir stopped. “These are dark days.”

Haldir looked him hard in the eye. “And darker are yet to come. My lady has seen it, and I have served her for years enough to put full faith in her visions. Sling barbs at _me_ as you will, but alienate Lothlórien at your own peril.”

Thranduil nodded, chastened, and somewhat relieved for it. Haldir’s heat was preferable to his indifference. Perhaps he had not been as unperturbed as Thranduil assumed. The mastery he had once claimed in reading the man’s moods had been lost long ago, and Haldir had become more adept at disguising them.

“Again I ask: Will you walk with me, Haldir?”

After sizing him up, Haldir conceded. He kept his head toward the trail as they walked. “Legolas is a fine man, and a good soldier. He has the respect of his people, and they are fond of him. As am I.”

“Does this surprise you?”

“That he is a good soldier? No, I assumed he would be; he is _your_ son. That I find myself fond of him?” He looked out into the dark woods, then back to the pathway ahead. “I suppose it does. I did not think I could look at him without imagining his conception. So I suppose I am surprised I can look on him with favor. You and your lady wife must be proud.”

“I am. Fanuilos...is.”

“I hear she passed over the sea.”

Thranduil threw him a dark look.

“The queen of an Elven realm departing for the Ancient West and leaving both husband and son behind? That _is_ the sort of news that makes the rounds, you know. I don’t believe it is common knowledge, but my lord was aware.”

“And he made you aware. That explains why it is only now you deign to come.”

“Would you have preferred to see me while she was at your side, knowing that behind clenched teeth I was choking on my own bile?” He either made no attempt or utterly failed in schooling the pain from his expression, and Thranduil was startled by its intensity.

He had not wanted to think on Fanuilos tonight, but it could not be avoided.

“She was-- is-- a beautiful and well-bred woman and she bore me a worthy son. My father did well in choosing her in these respects.” He paused to give Haldir an easy target for striking, but he did not take it. And so he continued. “She was biddable and kind. Her father, though he did not wish to leave Lindon himself, was quite taken with the idea of elevating his youngest daughter to the highest station. It would have been wiser to have chosen someone less tractable and more worldly. I am quite good at sparring, but less so with sentiment.” For a moment, he allowed himself to remember her face, the cervine planes of her features. Legolas bore traces of her, but only traces; a small sop to his conscience. “But Fanuilos was young, in experience more so than in age. I understood the purpose of our marriage.” He hesitated to look at Haldir now, for fear of what his face might betray, or what he would find reflected back at him, but each of them-- _all_ of them-- deserved an explanation, and only Haldir was there to hear it.

“I understood,” he continued, “what I was sacrificing." He brought his hands together, slowly raised them to his lips. "At least, I believed then that I understood.”

Beside him, Haldir’s face had paled, his neck had gone stiff, and the light of the gravid moon made plain the working of his jaw. Every word Thranduil spoke debrided a festering sore. Necessary to salvage the limb, but excruciating to bear.

“Fanuilos had been told, of course. Our fathers were not _that_ cruel. She had been told we were marrying to provide an heir, to perpetuate what Father had begun here, to give a prince a consort, and, perhaps, to be queen. But I believe that she hoped more would come of it in time. That I would learn to love her, and become a husband to her in truth, not just in name. 

“She wished for children right away. Perhaps she believed my heart would be somehow turned by a child. But I would not allow it to be turned. I refused her because she was not you, and because you weren’t here. It shames me to think of how little I considered her feelings, so bent was I upon my own resentments.”

Haldir was watching him from the corner of his eye, his expression still drawn.

“Perhaps in time we might have found our peace with each other, Perhaps had I been more forthcoming…” He struggled briefly, but pressed on. “When Legolas brought you to me, he told me that she had spoken of you. He knew your name. I did not realize she had known; I refused to ever speak your name in her presence. I tried never to speak it at all.” He stopped, and Haldir stopped beside him, near, but not too near. Striking distance. He blew out his breath in a thin stream. “I...despised you, you know. You had abandoned me when I most needed you. I intended to cut you from my heart as one cuts a canker from a rose.”

“I know,” Haldir answered grimly.

Thranduil, faltering at the last, looked away. “I failed. Utterly.”

A hand alighted, only barely and only briefly, on his arm, the touch of a breeze come and gone. “As did I.”

And they said nothing more for quite some time, each ensnared in his own sorrows and his own unspeakable longings.

When Haldir spoke again, his voice was rough and thick, the sound of a man begging the grace-stroke. “Finish it.”

“There is little else to say,” Thranduil admitted. “Lindon-born, she had no memory of the wildness of Neldoreth, nor of the grandeur of Menegroth. She found Eryn Galen a dark and often frightening place, even the stronghold on Amon Lanc. To her, our caverns were cold and inhospitable. She soon missed the sea, and asked to visit her family in Lindon regularly. She stayed longer each time, and I did not dissuade her. As Legolas grew, she lost what little joy she had ever had here. As he had less need of her, it must have seemed her sole purpose in this place had vanished.”

“Hadn’t it?”

Thranduil sighed, facing at last the depth of his failures. “Yes. It had.

“Her family wished to sail for Valinor. She asked that I send Legolas to her. I refused. She returned once more, this time with her father and brothers in tow, demanding that I release Legolas. _Release him_ , she said. As if I had enslaved him. Again I refused: he is _my_ heir.

“After continued remonstrance, I allowed Legolas to speak for himself; he was, after all, old enough to know his mind. Legolas is a child of the forest, as I was. As you were. It is in our blood in a way Fanuilos could never fathom. He told her his place was here, and that he would not leave. The parting was bitter on all sides, but we had each of us made our choices and were bound by them.

“And that,” he sighed, feeling perhaps as old as he had ever felt, “is the long, lamentable tale."

“I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Do you think me so base that I would wish you ill?”

A chagrinned smile contorted Thranduil’s mouth. “I suppose not. Though I...I have not been as gracious in my thoughts.”

“I earned your censure long ago. I ought to have come to you-- but I could not, Thranduil.”

“Celeborn’s need of you was so pressing?”

“Do not impugn him.”

“What other reason is there?”

“Because I could not have borne it!”

The rattle of leaves filled the void of reticence between them, a void that stretched and deepened. They gazed across the place of darkness a little helplessly. Too many years, too many disappointments. After a while, hurt and anger had to be set down lest one was buried under its weight.

“Let us keep walking.” Thranduil moved toward an obscure trail little known even to his people. “We fare better, you and I, when our bodies are engaged and not our mouths.”

“We always did.”

Neither moved, the density of the air between them holding them face to face. Each man heard the other’s breath, the beat of the other’s heart. Détente.

“Come.” Thranduil lifted his arm to point the way.

Haldir followed without objection. He must have known from his tours with Legolas that the path lead to a concealed entrance to the Great Hall...and ultimately, by a warren of well-guarded passageways, to Thranduil’s apartments. Once inside, there would be no pretense to excuse him, no pleading ignorance of the inevitability of the night’s ending. Yet he said nothing until they had crossed the threshold of Thranduil’s inner chamber and closed the door behind them.

 “What will your people say if I am seen departing?” he asked with an easiness Thranduil found dubious. “The king whose queen yet lives entertains strange men in his inner sanctum in her absence?”

“A queen who abandoned her king? Her son? Her people?” Thranduil bent to light the lamp sitting on the table by the door. “I bear the consequences of my choices, she bears the consequences of hers. And you bear the consequences of yours.” Fair warning. He returned the flint to its drawer.

“Whence this concern for my complicity?” Haldir laughed mirthlessly. “You had little enough need for it in Lindon.”

“There are private tunnels through the panel if your conscience is plaguing you. Go. The men who guard them are as loyal to me as you once were.”

“I never broke faith with you.”

“Ah.” Thranduil smiled bitterly. “So you have been chaste these many years?”

“Chaste? No. But I did not marry.”

Thranduil slammed the flat of his palm against the table. “I did as I had to!” The flame in the lantern guttered, but held.

“You did as you wished.”

“I did as my father wished.”

“You, too, wanted to rule, Thranduil, to have power. Your marriage was part of that.” Haldir turned aside abruptly and turned back, arms thrust out in appeal. “What would you have had me do? Remain your paramour in secret? Spend my life hiding under your bed or slinking through those guarded tunnels of yours with my trousers in my hand? Would you have had me serve you as a lesser man serves his better while I watch you sire children with your wife?”

 _Yes, Thranduil though. Yes, that is what I wanted._ He hadn’t needed to say it; Haldir saw it written on his face.

“I deserved better! The mother of your child deserved better. Such a life would have slain the love within me as sure as a dagger through my heart. You know this.”

 _You condemned your wife to such a fate_ , he might have said. Thranduil was grateful he had not.

“And despite everything, I have never stopped regretting my choice. Never.”

Thranduil lifted his head, grasped at the final, flailing remnants of his dignity. “I cursed you in silence for years uncounted. But when my father fell in Mordor, It was _your_ name I howled in my grief. From you alone did I crave consolation. I would have taken back every baleful word I had ever spoken to have you at my side in that moment.”

“I saw the charge, saw him fall.” Memory drew shadows to the hollows of Haldir’s face. “I did not know if you survived or perished. I could not neither eat nor sleep until word came you lived.” He gripped Thranduil’s shoulder. “I should have been with you.”

“If you had been, you would have died. I would see your sightless eyes in dreams staring up from that foul fen, even as I see my father’s yet.” He covered Haldir’s fingers with his own.

Haldir breathed deeply, drew his free hand hard across his face, and then watched Thranduil intently.

Ancient now and lit with secrets he was unlikely to ever unravel, Haldir’s eyes were as beautiful to him now as they had ever been: sharp as lances, deep as the sea, bright as stars. Alive, and here. Thranduil reached for him, as tentatively as he would have reached for a feral creature, and let his fingers trace the high arch of his cheek, let them draw down to his lips, which parted with a sigh at his touch. Haldir’s lids fluttered and closed. Thranduil leaned in.

“What are we doing?” Thranduil could feel the whisper of the words against his fingertips. “You are not free.”

“My heart is free.”

Haldir shook his head, but his touch remained, tracing runes on Thranduil’s shoulder belying his words. “I do not know if that is enough.”

“When Fanuilos departed, I told her I would not hold her to our vows.” It had been a final offering of peace, but when delivered, she had looked at him with contempt. “Perhaps she is content in Valinor and has suitors of her own. I would not fault her for seeking what I did not provide.”

“You sit easier than I with your rationale.”

“Enough, damn you!” Thranduil’s frayed equanimity snapped like a rotten thread; he had nothing but ugly truths to clothe him. “Do not judge me: you are here as well as I. I gave you leave to go, and yet you remain! Why? To mock me?”

“Peace, Thranduil. I do not mock you.”

The room spun; blood rushed to his head. “Do you wish to see me in my grief? Then look now and I will show you! Do you need to hear me speak the words to understand? Then listen: I am alone, and I am lonely. I punished her for not being you; I punished you for your absence; I punish myself because I cannot be reconciled on either side.” The looking glass loomed in the far corner, reflecting him in his garish misery, and he wished to hurl himself at it, to hear the glass shattering around him. Every nerve in him itched for carnage; the weight of Haldir’s hand kept him from becoming a cyclone of devastation. “I cannot see where it ends! With my death? When the evil at my gates destroys all I have built here and I find that I have foregone my heart’s greatest desire for naught? When I go to the West with all of my regrets and must answer for my failures? And what then? An eternity with a woman I can muster no more than fondness for, and who rightfully despises my indifference?” His fingers grasped at the strangling collar of his surcoat; it choked him.

“Thranduil, please.” Haldir’s palm molded to his cheek, stilled him, quieted the storm spiraling within him

“I have done all I can for this realm and its people. I have set aside my own desires for a larger purpose. I have not always been a good man, Haldir, but I have been ever on the _side_ of good. Does that count for so little? Am I not deserving of a single night’s reprieve?”

“Hush. Please...dear one…Peace.” He lifted the crown of leaves from Thanduil’s head, set it aside. “The crown is beautiful. But it sits heavily on your brow.”

Absent the weight, Thranduil took in air and expelled it in a sigh. “It does.”

Haldir’s fingers were playing along his hairline, dancing over his jaw, drawing the breath from his lungs. He had not allowed himself to remember how it felt to be touched so gently, so familiarly. He would shatter soon, like the looking glass in the corner he had wanted to dash.

Haldir undressed him slowly, then stood back and removed his own clothing with the same deliberation, his eyes never leaving Thranduil’s, and then he held out his hand, and they moved together toward the bed. He left the lantern to burn, and to burnish their exquisite treason. Thranduil was grateful for it; they understood what they did here; they did not turn away from it. Haldir’s mouth was soft, his touch less so. They punished each other cruelly until nothing but their gentleness remained.

When it all was done, they lay close together. He remembered Haldir’s narrow bed in Harlindon, and how it had once constrained him. It seemed a callow notion now when he wished he could be near enough to this man to climb inside his skin and live there forever. Haldir’s respiration was slow and easy, ruffling Thranduil’s hair. The flesh of his chest was hot against Thranduil’s cheek. The sheets were damp beneath them, but he did not care to move.

"All this…” He swept out his arm, an encompassing gesture. “All this ends with me. There will be no king in Eryn Galen when I am gone." He had known this in his heart for quite some time, but never before this moment had he spoken it aloud.

"Has Legolas no say?"

"This kingdom was my father's ambition-- and, yes, mine. It is my son’s birthright, but not his doom. I will not yoke my son to another man's dreams. Nor would I saddle him with this obligation: to watch the land wither and die, to steward a kingdom passing out of time. No. That is not his fate, but mine alone. And I shall bear it alone, however it all ends.”

“You are not alone.”

He smiled a sardonic, lazy smile against Haldir’s breast. “Not in this moment, no.” His lids sank down, his limbs became leaden. Haldir’s langor melded with his own. “We must rest,” he murmured.

“Yes,” came the sleepy reply.

Dreams cast out their summons, and Thranduil answered, beguiled by the beckoning darkness. As his legs gave their final waking twitch, he imagined he heard Haldir whisper, “ _Always_.”

 

 

~ )0( ~

 

 

The bed was empty when Thranduil woke. He had known it would be. He did not rush from his chambers to seek Haldir; he would have left no trace. He was no doubt halfway to the Old Forest Road already, and with none the wiser.

The knowledge did not pain him as much as he feared. A night’s grace had been granted him and some small bit of peace, however fleeting, had been given; it was enough. For him, it had to be.

When the sun crept over the transom, he knew he must rise and put the night behind him. Cold morning air set a chill in the chamber, a reminder the nights were growing longer now, and darker, and that the light died a little more each day. He rose, the stones cold on his bare feet, to close the open window.

A beam of light spilled across the floor, illuminating a single leaf the color of copper and fire that had been blown in during the night.

Blown in, or been left behind. Thranduil picked it up, rolled the stem between his fingertips, and pressed it to his lips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Art credits:  
> Thranduil by Dominique Wesson / DeviantArt  
> Thranduil by FangWangLlin / DeviantArt  
> Screenshot, Peter Jackson's The Hobbit


End file.
